Shoot your shot
by withered
Summary: Stiles doesn't know how he finds Derek Hale's Instagram account, but he's here now, and he'd like to thank Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and God for his serendipitous discovery because Derek Hale is hot like burning and Stiles is seconds away from bursting into flames.


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Shoot your shot

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Stiles doesn't know how he finds Derek Hale's Instagram account, but he's here now, and he'd like to thank Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and God for his serendipitous discovery because Derek Hale is hot like burning and Stiles is seconds away from bursting into flames.

Which takes effort, he'd have you know.

Despite Beacon Hills being in the middle of nowhere, California, Stiles is used to a certain level of attractiveness. He went to school with Lydia Martin, for Chrissake's. And despite Jackson being the king of douchebags, Stiles can begrudgingly and charitably admit that the guy wouldn't look out of place in an ad for Abercrombie. Not to mention Stiles' short term _thing_ with Danny whose cheekbones were sculpted by _gods__._

And it's those reasons, really, that gives Stiles the courage to slide into Derek Hale's DMs.

Because he might have been "in love" with Lydia for most of his life based on effective heterosexual conditioning, but she thinks he's cute. They'd even kissed once. Which led to his big gay panic when she'd told him, tone matter of fact, that _she_ wasn't his type. But that's a story for another day.

Besides, his _thing_ with Danny was totally consensual and lasted through senior year. Stiles is still convinced that that too was a twist of fate, but it isn't like Danny had any complaints. In fact, they've basically been each other's wingmen since they moved to Berkeley together for college, after the mutual and amicable end of their arrangement post-high school graduation.

Not that Danny, charming and well-liked as he is, is very good at getting Stiles laid.

Not that he doesn't try, but Stiles is. A lot. And let's face it, Stiles can't really compete with Danny's golden tan and dimples.

Though, in Danny's defense, he never took advantage of a lay meant for Stiles without Stiles' explicit agreement, and even then, Danny would kick up a fuss about it because: "I picked him for you, Stiles, god."

All that in mind, when Stiles had first spotted Hot Eyebrow Dude at the hipster coffee shop near his dorm, Stiles hadn't told Danny about it; wasn't willing to risk it. While Danny _usually_ turned down the guys he tried to set Stiles up with, it wasn't a guarantee and like. Stiles _wants_, and he doesn't think he could forgive Danny otherwise. (Which is horrible because it's _Danny_.)

Unfortunately, that meant doing reconnaissance on his own, and though his Google-fu skills are considerable, Danny's the IT expert.

Suffice to say Stiles had done a lot of analog work to try and figure out who Hot Eyebrow Dude was. Most of which probably bordered on stalking. (Though was it really anything more than pathetic to hang around a little too often at the coffee shop in hopes of catching the guy? _Probably_.)

Somehow though, Stiles finally got a bite, and lo and behold, he not only had Hot Eyebrow Dude's name but also several pictures to ogle at as well as photographic evidence that Derek Hale is Too Fucking Good for Him, Holy Shit.

While Derek with an iced matcha latte in hand, is certainly hipster enough with his classic Camaro and his tendency towards hole-in-the-wall hang out spots, and aesthetic Instagram posts, he is also a giant nerd.

He likes both Star Wars and Star Trek. He went to New Zealand last year because he'd like Lord of the Rings as a kid. He uses chemistry jokes as captions and doesn't care that his sisters - Stiles assumes, given the "hale" in their usernames - give him shit for it in the comments.

The thing that really clinches it for Stiles though, is that Derek, who Stiles has witnessed glaring daggers at a group of chattering freshmen in the library one day and smirking when they'd scampered off, is tagged in a series of pictures that proclaim him to be a grumpy asshole on the outside and a squishy cinnamon roll on the inside: Derek Hale was the man of honor at one of his sister's wedding, goes on regular lunch dates with his mom, and regularly volunteers at the local animal shelter.

Stiles is pretty sure he's _this close_ to growing ovaries and having them explode.

Which is exactly when he discovers that Derek also happens to be a dedicated gym bunny, and like any self-respecting millennial, has plenty of pictures to prove it (if his body hadn't already).

They're so hot Stiles intakes a sharp breath like he's been punched in the chest which is dumb because Stiles has _seen_ Derek in person; knows from the stretch of his jeans that he's got thighs thick enough to crush Stiles' head with, and from the variety of butter-soft Henleys Derek favors, his biceps are just as impressive.

But like.

Derek's muscles have muscles.

He's tall, and built and _hairy_, and the mere thought of Derek twisting into some truly _riveting_ positions in hot yoga has Stiles drooling. Like, his brain is actually oozing out of his ears right now.

Add the fact that thanks to the angle of Derek's photos, Stiles can see a hint of bunny teeth and a glimpse of a dimple that bites into the cheek of Derek's stubble, and Stiles can't be responsible for any of his actions henceforth.

Derek will forgive him. He seems like a nice guy, besides being the personification of the phrase "mark me down as scared and horny".

Derek's probably used to people sliding into his DMs. He probably won't even notice Stiles shooting his shot. What could it hurt?

And okay, as much as Stiles _wants_ he's also _realistic_.

Derek Hale is so far out of his league that they aren't even in the same galaxy, but Stiles hasn't really _wanted_ anyone like this before. Not enough to hang around hipster coffee shops for hours on end when, thanks to his ADHD, caffeine literally puts him to sleep. And certainly not enough to actually _slide into anyone's DMs_.

But Stiles figures, even if Derek never sees it and never responds, no one can say he didn't try.

Maybe in a couple of months, in a moment of weakness, he'll tell Danny about it, and because Danny's a good friend he'll insist on trying to set it up, and Derek will turn Stiles down via Danny, and life can return to its regularly scheduled rat race of studies, exams and too much Adderall.

He'd much rather take his loss digitally anyway. Much more efficient. Much less embarrassing. And comes with a lowered probability of Danny accidentally and inevitably getting laid by Stiles' failure. It's a win all around. It's fine. It'll be fine.

Except for the fact that Stiles _is a fucking liar_.

Just the thought of Derek being close enough for Stiles to figure out what color his eyes are, whether he smells as good as he looks, what the cadence of his voice is, and get to admire those adorable bunny teeth in person is enough to make him lightheaded. That his imagination is somehow both extensive and cliché enough that Stiles has no problem picturing Derek effortlessly hoisting him up against the mirrored wall of the gym's changing room, and getting beard burn all over his _everything_ is really why Stiles' eyes glaze over, his fingers move without real thought and he's hitting "send" with no hesitation.

It's only when Erica, one of the baristas of the coffee shop saddles up beside him to tease, "Jesus, Stiles, how much coffee did you drink?" that he jolts out of the trance of his inappropriate thoughts and stares in horrified silence at his screen.

"Stiles, what's wrong?"

"Holy shit."

"Stiles," She prods, tentative, "you're scaring me, Batman."

"Jesus. _Erica," _he groans, his head dropping with a _thud _against the table, phone discarded beside him in his anguish as he just sort of _lays there_.

"What? What's wrong?" she asks, alarmed.

"I shot my shot."

"What?" she repeats. "Stiles, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Erica," he wails, "I found my future husband." Because when does Stiles _ever _do anything halfway? While he's all about doing the dirty with Derek, he's also pretty sure they're soulmates. Derek won a trophy for both a Game of Thrones trivia night and a beer pong competition. Plus, Derek dressed some of the dogs in the shelter up as _wizards_ on the first of September. _They're meant to be._

Casually accepting an unrequited crush? _Couldn't be Stiles._

"What did you say?" Erica asks warily, and after a vague gesture at his phone, he hears her lift it, and then she's whistling.

"Holy shit, Stiles, I didn't think you had it in you."

"It's bad."

"It's dirty," she corrects, all teeth, and Stiles _wants to die._

"I told him _he could ruin me_."

Erica hums then, surprisingly doesn't say anything, slides his phone back to him, smiles and leaves him to his shame.

Fuck. Fuck. Holy fuck.

Okay. Breathe. Breathe. It's not the worst. What are the chances that Derek will even see his message? Those go to the spam box automatically if they aren't following each other, right? And Stiles _isn't, _and Derek _definitely isn't_. So. So. He's fine. Derek won't even see it. He'll never know. Everything's going to be –

His phone chirps with a notification that heralds his doom: _Derek Hale is now following you._

Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck, oh shit, oh –

With bated breath, Stiles stares at his chat with Derek until finally, Derek replies to Stiles' decree that _Derek could ruin him_, with _Then let me, _and-and, holy mother of _god._

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**A/n: **Inspired by brawlite's "slide right in (to my dms)" Harringrove fic on ao3


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